


The Secret Marriage

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aasar Khan fans, suspend your disbelief and enjoy this romantic piece of non-canon smut, set post-4.11.  Written to the prompt "Carrie and Khan secretly get married."  It was a tough prompt to execute, but I think I pulled it off.</p><p>Characters are the property of Alex Gansa and Showtime.  Any mistakes regarding culture, geography, language or religion are solely mine and not the fault of Google Earth, Trip Advisor, or Wikipedia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the bright kitchen of the Maggie's cozy suburban home, Carrie Mathison sat across the kitchen island from her sister, who placed a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down. On the floor on a play mat, baby Franny burbled and jabbered, happy in the presence of her mother and aunt, leaning forward on her chubby bottom to take a swipe at the tail of an orange tabby cat that sauntered through the room periodically. Carrie regarded the baby intently.

"She's thinking about cruising," Maggie said.

"Cruising?" Carrie said, still clueless about the terms used to describe infant locomotion, having been an absentee mother for the better part of a year.

"Pulling to a stand, trying to walk while holding on to things."

"Oh," Carrie said. "She's doing great," she admitted, and making eye contact with her warm-hearted sister, said sincerely, "Thank you."

Maggie shrugged. "She's a delight," she said. "You've gotten four texts since you got here. Everything ok?" Maggie was used to Carrie's insanely stressful lifestyle, and urgent texts on life-or-death matters were, unfortunately, something of a routine for them.

"Yes, I think so," Carrie said. "They were all from Quinn."

Maggie stirred her coffee, and sighed. "Is he ok?" she asked.

"I think so," Carrie said. Shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head, she grimaced embarrassedly. "He's still extremely pissed at me. Now doubly so, because I signed him up for eight weeks of mandatory psychological counseling, if he wants to stay with my group and keep his G-status. And his bonus," she remarked, thoughtfully.

Maggie smiled sadly. "It's good for him. Too many soldiers don't get treatment for PTSD, and those are the ones we lose," she said.

"I know," Carrie said. "I'm just glad he decided to stay with the stateside team for a while. We all need to cool out and recover, or something. I might have a bit of PTSD myself," she said, and looked at her hands, tracing a finger over a brown line on the back of one.

"Is there something you're not telling me? I mean, beyond the crazyness you've already told me?" Maggie said concernedly.

Carrie sighed and stirred her coffee. "Yeah, there is," she said. "It's so bizarre, I'm not even sure I know where to start."

Maggie frowned, and looked at the clock. "Four P.M.," she said. "Not too early for me," she said, and got up and went to one of the kitchen cupboards. She came back with a bottle of Bushmill's, and added a healthy dollop to each of their coffees. They stirred, lifted their cups, and clinked the coffee mugs together. "To Dad," Maggie said.

"To Dad," Carrie echoed dolefully.

After they sipped for a moment, Maggie inquired,"You going to tell me?"

Carrie looked at her guiltily. "Don't freak out. But, three nights before I left Pakistan, I got married."

Maggie set her cup down hard enough to splash Irish Coffee on the counter. "What?!" she intoned.

"Let me tell you what happened," Carrie said, taking a deep breath.

* * *

It was a week after the Embassy incursion, and Carrie Mathison stood tired and dispirited at the airport, seeing off a planeload of American Embassy employees and Agents. That afternoon, she had gotten a very tired and very irritable Peter Quinn on a transport, bracketed by two large, trustworthy Marines who swore on their sainted mother's lives that he would arrive at Langley in one piece. With a hostile glare, he allowed himself to be briefly, awkwardly hugged, as he sighed, "You win, Carrie."

"You heard what I said," she said, eyes becoming misty. "I can't lose you. Now go home, rest up, and get better. OK? I need you back in fighting form. I'll be in the US in a few days."

He said nothing, but looking slightly mollified, he nodded and moved off down the tarmac between the Marines, with his duffel. What an ordeal, she thought. But her friend was safe, and she had put an end to the losses. That part of this mess was over. She turned, signing the vacate order for the agent standing by, and giving Quinn a last wave, watched him board the plane. She had only a few days to pack herself up, and was starting to feel the urgency of the station closing, when she turned and almost bumped directly into a broad chest, covered by a sharply pressed Pakistani officer's uniform. She looked up, into the brooding dark eyes of Aasar Khan. At that moment, she had no stomach to deal with ISI, Tasneem or any of that pack of Taliban jackals. She knew Khan had very divided allegiances, with some of his actions clearly placing him on the side of the Americans and some with ISI, but she had never been able to ascertain his reasons for helping her. Still, she was not in the mood to massage this asset at the moment.

"Chief," she said briefly. "Excuse me," and began to move off around him, blowing him off. He turned and walked with her as she strode away, headed for the airport entrance and her driver. She noticed, annoyed, that he was following her. "What brings you here this afternoon," she inquired over her shoulder, hoping to cut the right balance of boredom and disinterest with polite inquiry.

"Miss Mathison," Khan said, finding himself having to hustle to keep up with her, even with his long stride. "I actually came here to find you."

"Oh, really," Carrie said, looking straight ahead, then down at her watch, walking on. "What can I help you with," she said, keeping it businesslike.

"I came to inquire if..." Khan said, "if you might have a few hours of time that you could spare. This afternoon, perhaps, or this evening." His correct, deferential English, underscored by a clipped British accent, gave away nothing of his purpose, only suggested a meeting. He sounded nervous. Carrie bulldozed on, saying, "I'm going to be packing and moving out over the next day or two. I also have to see off one more transport of American caskets tomorrow," she said, at which Khan winced painfully.

Khan reached out to Carrie and grabbed her shoulder. She was shocked. In his culture, it was unbecoming to touch an woman in public who was not a relation. His grip forced her to a stop, and she turned to face him. Despite her apparent irritation, she remembered that moment from the week before, when Haqqani's jeep had crawled down the street in front of her, Peter sweating and swearing at her from a nearby buildingtop, and Khan had seen her and retreived her from a moment of near insanity as she considered using her semiautomatic to... what? She didn't know, and now would never know, because Khan's arms had gone around her and held her firmly in place.

She hadn't seen Khan since that afternoon. Neither she nor Peter had worked out yet what Dar Adal was doing in the jeep. But Saul said he was meeting Adal at Waffle House in Arlington the next weekend, and would report back what he found. Maybe they'd find something out then. The delights of working in the intel community - there's always something you don't know.

The memory of Khan's muscular arms around her, shielding her from the crowd in the crush of hysteria, the warmth of his hand through her suit jacket, all brought Carrie's senses to bear on him. Really seeing him for the first time that afternoon, she looked up into his dark eyes and waited. "Chief? What is it," she asked.

Khan took his hand away from her shoulder, as if it burned him. "Miss Mathison," he started again. "My request is... entirely personal," he stated, looking uncomfortable. "I would like to spend some time with you before you leave Islamabad. Tonight, if possible. Even now. I would like to show you my city, and speak to you."

Carrie squinted at him, then considered. "Speak to me about what?" she said.

Khan drew himself up to his full height. He looked down on the diminutive blond agent. "It will take a bit of time to explain. Would it be convenient to meet tonight, and share a meal?" Jesus God, she thought, is he asking me on a date? Impossible. But who the Hell knew with the counter-terrorism Chief, with the ISI, with any part of the Pakistani Government; who knew which side they were on, what they thought, or frigging anything for sure? She thought for a moment, and said, "I can spare a few hours."

"My driver and I will pick you up at six thirty," he said, and she thought she heard a relieved note in his voice. Remind me to bring my sidearm, she thought.

"OK, see you tonight." Carrie walked out to the waiting G-car.

Carrie frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. She thought her personal style had become compromised as she rose to prominence in the C.I.A., always feeling that each succeeding year and promotion took more individuality away from her manner of dress. Still, she needed to be taken seriously, so suits and pants were her thing. The fluttering round collar of the pure white silk blouse she chose for this evening was the most feminine thing she could find in her wardrobe. In her purse, she had placed a large square navy headscarf, dotted with tiny flowers, in case she and Khan wanted to travel into areas that required she cover - almost inevitable when she was out without her American escorts. She wondered, briefly, why she cared if she appeared feminine or not. Still, she took a moment to apply a light fragrance, under her breasts and around the backs of her ears, "Jewel", by Alfred Sung. Maggie had sent it to her for her first Mother's Day gift, to her everlasting guilt. She questioned her own wisdom in going out with Khan at all, let alone getting ready like it was a real date. But still, it felt good to take care of herself. She wrote this one up to "good self-esteem" and went downstairs.

Carrie stood under the overhang, the evening breeze moving through the folds of her blouse and her soft, wide legged navy pants. At precisely 6:30, Khan's large black Expedition pulled into the Embassy grounds. The rear door opened. Khan stepped out of the car, and he stood there, tall and handsome , holding it for her. "Miss Mathison," he said, eyes lingering on her face as she decended the stairs.

"Good evening, Chief," she returned, and was surprised when he reached out and took her right hand, but instead of helping her immediately into the back of the SUV, he raised her fingers to his lips, and placed a heated kiss on her white knuckles. He bowed slightly to do this, and his eyes looked up to meet hers as his lips touched her fingers. The gallant gesture knocked Carrie for a loop. He continued to hold her hand as she stepped into the vehicle, then let go reluctantly, as she took her seat. He followed, closed the door, and the driver moved off.

They sat in opposite ends of the SUV's back seat. After this strangely intimate greeting, Carrie felt tongue tied. "How was your afternoon," she inquired lamely.

"It has been a week of trials. I thank you for coming out to dine with me. It is rare that I get to spend leisure time at all, let alone with a..." Khan realized he had talked himself into a tight spot, "colleague," he finished weakly.

She smiled. He was nothing if not charming. It had been a long week. It didn't appear that he had anything in mind but food and good company, and God knows there had been little enough of that in the last few months of her life. She could remember whole days of coffee, no sleep and not eating anything at all. "I agree. A week of trials. Where should we go tonight?" she said.

"I have a place in mind," he said, and leaning forward, tapping on the window, instructed the driver in Urdu to drive into the Margalla hills.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Restaurant Monal, where Khan once again gallantly stepped out first, and held the car door for Carrie. He held her hand as she descended from the high SUV, and once again, seemed to be lingering over the chivalrous custom of assisting a lady, his thumb rubbing sensually over the back of her hand as she alighted. She wondered if he was merely trying to hold her hand for a little longer, then dismissed the idea as absurd.

"This is one of my favorite places in Islamabad," he stated, as they took the elevator up. The stuffy, warm atmosphere of the elevator felt slightly claustrophobic to her, as Khan stood close to her side, in order to give a man in a wheelchair more room. As the man rolled off the elevator first, Khan's hands rested on Carrie's shoulders, holding her aside. Once again, the absurd thought. But there it was.

Khan and Carrie emerged from the elevator hall into the rooftop restaurant deck, which afforded an astounding vista of the Margalla hills, the city of Islamabad spreading out far below, like a magic carpet. The open format contributed to the romantic atmosphere, with only the sky and stars for ceiling, and local acoustic music playing quietly behind the patrons' conversation. The maitre'd seated them immediately at one of the best tables in the house, which must have had something to do with Aasar's high status, because the place was packed. Khan took a moment to point out the beautiful view of Islamabad to the north, and Rawalpindi to the south. "I have lived here most of my life, but I never get tired of this view." He was right, the view was spectacular. He ordered tea for the both of them without consulting her, and a selection of dishes that they could share. He was courteous without pandering, and when he cutely and awkwardly asked, "Do you like spice?" she actually giggled. His ears reddened slightly at her laughter, and he told the server brusquely, "Keep it mild, please." She knew that even "mild" dishes could be blazing here, and was pleased to find that they served it exactly as he asked.

They spoke pleasantly over the meal, a variety of topics ranging from Carrie's birthplace, her education, Khan's military career, and family. "I went to Oxford," he said, "where I read political science. I also studied European art." He watched for her reaction. Carrie's eyebrows went up, "That is impressive," she said, "and when you graduated, you came directly back home?"

"Not straight away," he said expansively, relaxing. "After some travel. My mother and father needed me, but I wanted to see Italy first. And Spain."

"Oh," inquired Carrie. "Madrid?"

"No, the Guggenheim, Bilbao," Khan said, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "After that, I came home to resume my duties." He sighed. He flicked his eyes towards Carrie, whose silk blouse fluttered in the evening breeze. The skin of her neck was white as milk. The air had cooled rapidly since the sun had set, and the tiniest of gooseflesh had raised around her throat. His hands itched to touch it, warm it with his hands. He gazed at her steadily, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

Carrie had been enjoying socializing (though, she confessed, she would have enjoyed it more with a glass of wine), but was curious about the real purpose of the meeting. There had to be something else he wanted.

"Chief Khan..." she started.

"Please," he said, a pained look on his face. "Call me Aasar."

"Aasar, then. Why are we out here tonight, having dinner together? Was there something you needed to talk to me about?"

Khan cringed. Carrie Mathison, American woman. Always so straight and to the point. "Well," he said, "I was going to get around to that. But we must take a walk," he said.

She looked across the table at him, and felt kindly towards his gentleness, his refined manner, his deferential treatment. She would wait to hear what he had to say. He had treated her, since they met this evening, like no less than a princess. "Shahzadi," she corrected herself internally. The Urdu honorific for princess. She would be as considerate in return.

Khan paid the check, and then got up to pull Carrie's chair back from the table. His hand cupped her elbow as she rose. There was a delicious tingle in her stomach as his skin contacted hers. She found herself discomforted by this arousal - this man had surely been duplicitous to her country. But to her, he had behaved very decently, kindly. At his house, in his office, at their street meetings, and certainly in the crowd outside Haqqani's crib. She was willing to give him benefit of the doubt.

They walked around the rooftop restaurant, making their way slowly back down to the car, he continuing to hold her arm protectively, while she relived in her mind that bizarre afternoon and evening during which she had slept off the effects of the hallucinogen that Dennis Boyd had substituted into her regular medication. She was very conscious of the heat, the direct contact of skin between his hand and her arm, and was glad she had worn short sleeves. Just knowing he was there to lean on made her stronger, as the frightening memories rolled by in her mind.

Her memories of the first part of that horrible afternoon were hazy - she recalled seeing Peter at the hospital and accusing him of being in love with her, then belting him in the nose with her elbow as she escaped. Although it felt like something that might have happened, she had confirmed with Quinn that it was a hallucination. Then, she remembered shooting an Islamabad police officer in the streets outside the hospital. Thankfully, she had not harmed anyone in her delusional state. Then, she remembered being captured, bound, screaming wretchedly for her freedom until she was delivered to Khan's palatial home. That part was real. She felt like she could recall more memories after that, but she hadn't delved. She had other things on her mind, and there had been no reason.

Khan and Carrie descended in the elevator, now keeping as far apart as possible from each other. She was now aware that he was attracted to her - all of the touching, the chivalry, the heated looks and sneaky glances, at her eyes, her neck, her shapely legs... he was definitely taking her in. It didn't have anything to do with being Station Chief either - an entire evening had passed without any shop-talk. He was interested in  _her_. The choice to stay farther apart in the elevator only served to increase the electricity in the air between them. She looked down at her strappy black high heels. No wonder he felt awkward this afternoon, she thought. The man had a crush.

He helped her into the SUV, his soft hand again clutching hers, and instructed the driver to commence. A pregnant silence fell as the car moved smoothly through the streets, the night breeze moving in the palm trees, the cityscape lights below them a tangle of diamond bracelets thrown into a black velvet box. The homes grew more stately and the yards larger as the SUV approached Khan's house. Carrie's eyebrows went up, but she said nothing. The SUV pulled into the circular driveway, and dropped them off. Khan spoke to the driver, who pulled out and left them alone under the carport overhang.

"So, we're going for a walk... at your house?" she said, suspiciously.

He had the good graces to look embarrassed. "My garden," he said, eyes down. "I want to show it to you."

She shrugged and preceded him into the grand foyer, and wrapping her flowered scarf around her shoulders, she left her purse on a lowboy in the entryway. The home's grandeur had mostly escaped her the first time she had been there, as she had been a mess of mind-altering drugs. But this time she was able to appreciate its opulence. Marble floors, columns, high ceilings, voluminous, drifting curtains, and a huge open back wall leading into the gardens he was hoping to show her. She followed him through these rooms, shoes clicking on the shiny marble. Slowly over the course of the evening, she had felt herself becoming distant from her Station Chief persona, her responsible self. Recollections of one-night stands back in the states cropped up in her memory, evenings of altered states and risky sexual adventure. As she observed Khan's impeccable home, a sliver of impulsivity and craziness instigated itself into her mind, and she realized that no one had touched her intimately since Ayaan. And what a disaster that had been - simply  _pro forma_ sex, performed rotely. No pleasure for her at all, in fact, his lack of experience compounded with the flashbacks to Brody had rendered it downright painful. Ayaan noticed she was crying, and had asked why - poor, stupid kid. The whole thing made her sick. Compared to that memory, this evening had been a revelation.

Khan opened French doors that led out into his garden. Carrie followed him outside, observing how the warm indoor lighting reflected off his glossy, dark hair. He was right to be proud of this place. A huge, well maintained grassy sloping lawn held a pond covered with lotus blossoms. Fruit trees lined the far end of the yard, but closer to the house, a manicured rose garden with symmetrical gravel paths encouraged walking among Khan's carefully selected sculptures. Of course, Oxford-educated Aasar Khan would have an English sculpture garden. They walked side by side behind his mansion, very slowly, not touching, until they reached a reproduction of a recognizable masterpiece.

"Rodin. The Kiss," Carrie said, softly. "Yes," Khan said, his voice grave. "Please," he said, indicating a nearby bench. They sat down together. Finally, we'll get to it, Carrie thought. The meal had assuaged one kind of hunger, but awakened another.

Khan's long brown fingers flexed as they smoothed his uniform. He said nothing at first, apparently nervous, gathering his thoughts. They both looked at the Rodin sculpture, the night breeze sweetly moving through their hair. The portrayal of a nude couple locked in an intimate embrace, the man's fingers pressing into the woman's bare thigh, gave the evening a decidedly sensual tone. There was no denying the attraction on either side, and although unspoken, it hung in the air like the scent of jasmine.

Finally, Khan spoke. "How much do you remember of the night and day you spent here?" he said.

"The earlier bits, I can remember. The parts that took place at your house are hazy, at least until the morning."

Khan sighed and looked at the ground. "I must speak frankly with you, Miss... Carrie." he said, switching to the familiar, feeling bold and looking to her eyes to see if she accepted it.

"Please," she said, wondering what he had in mind.

"The night you stayed here, they brought you to me in a straightjacket. I was able to... unbind you, but keep you here, keep you safe. No one would know. I had you brought to my sitting room, and when they removed the restraint, you thought I was... someone else."

She flushed with embarrassment. The vision of Brody had been so intense, she had thrown herself at who she imagined was he, her lost, broken prisoner of war. "Yes," she said, her shoulders hunching. "I remember that."

"Do you know what you said, and how you acted?" Khan asked.

Carrie's eyes pricked with tears. "Is that why you brought me here, just to embarrass me?" she said, hurt. She stood and walked to the statue.

Khan was immediately up on his feet, right behind her, placing one supple hand on each of her shoulderblades, boldly. "No, no. That is not what I want at all," he said, anguished.

She turned to him, "Then what? Why are we discussing this?" Her eyes leaked a single tear of humiliation.

Khan towered in front of Carrie, holding her upper arms in both of his smooth palms, breathing in and out through his nose, agitated.

"I brought you here," he said, "Because I needed to speak to you, if only once. The night you spent at my house, I..." he was unable to finish the sentence. Turning his head slightly to the side, he looked at the nearest rose bush. "I became... enamored."

Carrie looked up at him. She said nothing, just waited for him to recover himself. "Khan, please. Be more clear. You know I don't remember most of that night." His eyes turned to her, sparks of frenzy appearing within their black depths, an emotional compulsion that was going to force the truth from his mouth at last.

"Carrie. When I had you here that night, you kissed me. I held you in my arms most of the night. In my lap, like a babe. I kissed your forehead and tried to get you to come back down to earth. You cried and cried. While I held you. Do you remember?" he said, straining to control his voice, his words.

"I remember some of it," she said softly. He released her arms, and turned away, facing the house, hands in his pockets.

"All that night, I tended you. The next day, you were still ill. You tried to get up and I..." he turned, looked at her, his dark eyes distressed, his chest expanding with a huge, deep breath. "I put you back into my bed. I almost carried you. You protested, but I knew what was best," he finished, sounding protective, but embarrassed at the same time.

Carrie's irritation at the memory came to the surface and she said, "Did it never occur to you to call medical help? Call my Embassy? Maybe get Quinn and some of my guys to take me home?" The thought had never occurred to her before. But now she felt she had to ask.

"I couldn't," Khan said, sounding tormented.

"And why is that?" Carrie demanded.

"Because," Khan swallowed, "I fell in love with you that night," he uttered. "And since that night, I have felt like I am losing my mind." He sighed. The words had been said, he couldn't unsay them, he could only stand and wait anxiously for her reaction.

The silence of the quiet residential neighborhood wrapped around them, broken only by the voices of insects, trilling their silvery tones out into the night. Khan said nothing more, his handsome features cramped with anxiety, his anguished gaze locked onto Carrie's face. She realized the effort it took for a man this proper, in this culture, to speak these words. In a society still dominated by arranged marriages, the idea of being in love with someone - and telling them - was pathologically romantic, very uncommon and completely unacceptable. Would he now be so Western as to try to seduce her? She sort of hoped that he would. He crossed the distance between them, and once again reached for her hand.

He raised her right hand to his lips again, and kissed the back of it passionately, then turned his head to the side, and pressed his cheek into her fingers, murmuring her name. Undoubtedly he ached to touch her, and at his admission of affection, she was ready to allow it. His tall, strong body strained at the effort of holding back from seizing her and beginning his lovemaking, right here in the garden.

"Aasar," Carrie said softly, expecting to be invited to bed. "What do we do now?"

He took her hand down from his face. Placed it open, palm down, over his heart. "Marry me," he whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Maggie looked at Carrie steadily during the entire story, and by the end of her narrative, she had finished her Irish Coffee. She took Carrie's cup and her own, and set them down in the kitchen sink with a bump. "Well. That's about the wildest first date I ever heard of," Maggie said, trying to withhold judgment. She knew Carrie would tell her more if she didn't condemn the actions in the first part of the story.

"It all made sense at the time," Carrie said. Franny squawked, and Maggie picked her up. She got a dish of baby carrots ready, and put Franny in the high chair by the counter while Carrie gathered her thoughts.

"I'm sure it did. What I don't understand is, how did you end up married? What part of your feelings couldn't be settled by a nice, no-strings-attached night in the sack? Come on, we're grown-ups. Spare me the suspense. What happened that night in the garden?"

Carrie frowned, shook her head, and said, "The easiest way to explain it is, Khan and I both lost our minds at the same time."

Carrie couldn't believe her ears. She had been propositioned a large number of ways over the years, starting in high school with clumsy, stammering boys with sweaty hands (rejected) and ending the previous week, when a sloppy-drunk Peter Quinn had finally broken his personal-touch barrier with her, and suggested that they work off a little stress from the last mission (also rejected). Peter was sloshed, and in that state was sweet and sincere. She and Max had put his drunken ass to bed, and the next morning, he played Mr. Cool and pretended he didn't remember. Perhaps he really didn't, she thought. Either way, she was blown away to be proposed to. She had boyfriends before, she had loved Brody, but nobody had ever asked her to marry them. Her heart fractured a little at the thought. Khan still held her hand over his chest. He appeared to be completely serious.

"Aasar, I," she started, gasping out a little amazed laugh. "I don't know how to answer that. How can you propose marriage to me right now? I don't want to be unkind, but that sounds insane."

Khan gave her a pained glance. "I meant what I said, Carrie. I am in love with you. I am no great judge of these things, but to me, it feels like the pinnacle love relationship of my entire life. My parents have tried to arrange a marriage for me a score of times, but nothing took. Now I know why. My heart was waiting for you."

To her dismay, he dropped to one knee, still holding her hand. His body quivered with emotion and contained lust. "Is there any chance you feel the same way?"

Carrie looked down at him, reached out and stroked the chestnut colored skin around the hairline, on his forehead, by his ear.

"Khan, I'm ... going back to the US. And I barely know you. I don't see how this can work in any way." She saw the heartbreak in his eyes, and felt pity at what it must have cost him to reveal his feelings thus far.

His sadness beguiled her, and his ardor was clear when he made his next suggestion, a last-ditch attempt to capture and keep at least a part of her.

"Then, let it be a secret marriage," he begged.

She held his hand and indicated that he should rise. "Aasar, why would we do that?" she said reasonably, in her 21st-century American way.

"It could be a religious ceremony only. You would make your vows to me," he said enigmatically, standing again in front of her. "Then, without restraint, we can," he swallowed, the lusty glow in his eye giving away his thoughts, "we can indulge our carnal natures. You would belong to me, Carrie." He raised her hand to his face again and turned her palm to his mouth, kissing, opening his lips to tongue it, his eyes continuously open and wanting, shiny with desire for her. Carrie trembled.

"What kind of marriage would it be," she asked, "if I'm leaving town in two days?" Trying to be reasonable, to calm him, she said, "I might never be posted back here. "

Khan sighed, and held her palm to his cheek.

"A spiritual marriage, a marriage of two souls. A single night and a day with you, my darling, is better than an eternity in darkness." His flagrantly romantic statement made him seem slightly mad, but it also turned her on to no end.

"Spiritual. Right. So we marry, make love, and then I go home."

"To annul, if you wish." He looked down, tracing a soft figure eight on the palm of her hand with one finger. Her heart thumped in her chest, as he inspected her face for signs of concession.

Carrie was tired, she felt weak, the whole situation was simply overwhelming. She thought she was going out for a pleasant dinner with an international colleague, and instead, ended up with a mad Pakistani lover, on his knees swearing eternal devotion, asking her to wed. It was lunacy. But he didn't seem deranged, he seemed loving, determined, kind and intensely turned on.

She breathed a long sigh, and leaned against his chest. He startled, and then his arms came up and around her, holding her close, bending to kiss the top of her head. "Carrie, Carrie, please say yes. Let's have our moment," he urged.

"Khan," Carrie said quietly, feeling light-headed in his embrace, "take me inside." He immediately reached down, under her arms and under her knees, and picked her completely up off the ground, his wiry strength making her feel light as a feather. He started to carry her back towards the patio.

"Khan, I didn't mean you had to carry me," she protested, wiggling in his arms. "I do have to," he said. "I have dreamt of this."

Her arm slung was around his neck, and his lean body warm against hers as he carried her slight weight back up the path. The significance of the "bridal-carry" posture she was in did not escape her. She whispered into his ear, as he carried her to the house, "We don't have to wait for a ceremony. You can have me tonight," she said.

He shuddered, tempted. "In one night," he said, "I can prepare. We can be together then, when I unveil you." he breathed. His restraint was admirable, no doubt learned from a lifetime of living within a strict religion, and from the discipline of an upper-class background. Reaching the house, he carried her up the stairs, to a white leather couch where he set her down reverently.

He knelt on the floor in front of her, and reaching out for both ends of the scarf that was wrapped around her shoulders, used it to pull her forward, trapping her in the tight fabric, his mouth descending on her delicate neck, lips passionately exploring her throat. "Carrie. My darling," he intoned. "Say yes."

Her eyes rolled back, her mind reeled. His proposal was surely the most selfless, passionate, and romantic thing that had ever happened to her. After all she'd been through that year, she thought it was ok to lose her mind for a bit. His mouth was doing delirious things to her throat. And as he said, it could be annulled. It would be meaningful to him, and well, he was just too damned attractive to pass up.

The scarf gripped in his hands, he still had her pulled tightly next to him, imprisoning her in the circle of his desire. "Aasar," she moaned, "Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

Maggie finished feeding baby Franny, and started the dish cleanup, then wiped the baby's face and picked her up out of the high chair. The two women moved into the living room, and sat down on the matching couches, first placing Franny in a playpen that Maggie used for daytime naps downstairs. Franny batted at a toy, her eyes already half closed. Turning on her side, she plugged her thumb into her mouth and clutched at her love bunny.

"She found her thumb," Maggie observed.

"Is that good?" Carrie asked.

Maggie looked at her with annoyance. Carrie really knew nothing about children - yet. "Well, it's good for now, because you're not always looking for a clean pacifier."

Carrie sighed. "I guess you think I'm crazy," she said, referring again to the wedding, Khan, the whole Pakistani episode.

Maggie sat back. Regarding Carrie quietly, she said, "Carrie, I'm your sister. I know what you've been through. I know your diagnosis and your behavior over the last ten years. Of course I think you're crazy. Any period of time you spend not acting crazy is like a gift to us. To me," she amended, remembering painfully that their Dad had passed.

"Do you want to hear the end of this?" Carrie said, disgusted with Maggie's too-accurate assessment of her mental illness and the past.

"Yes, of course I do," she said. "Tell me all about your new husband."

Carrie squirmed at the description. "It really was quite magical," she said.

The previous night, Khan had contained himself and released Carrie from his grip, gently and fussily replacing her scarf over her neck, recently ravaged by his kisses. He called his driver from the cell phone in his pocket, and then pulled Carrie to her feet. His arm around her protectively, he walked her to the main parlor in the front of the house, where a medieval frieze covered one wall, and a large Waterhouse reproduction hung above the English-style fireplace under elaborate double crown moulding.

They stood, arms around each other in the chandelier-lit gloom, studying the painting. The heat of Aasar's lithe body comforted Carrie, seeping into places she didn't even know were hurt. No wonder she had crawled all over him in her drug-addled misery. He smelled, and felt, absolutely wonderful.

"What's the name of this one?" she asked, indicating the painting.

"Hylas and the Nymphs," Aasar murmured into Carrie's hair. The large painting depicted a beautiful youth, crouched down next to a small body of water, where exquisite, naked females floated in the water, reaching out to him.

"What happened to him?" she asked, huskily.

"The nymphs enchanted him. He disappeared, and though Heracles hunted long and far, they never found him," Khan said. "They say he died of love."

"How terribly romantic," Carrie said, "After getting to know you better, I hardly expected it of you," she grinned lopsidedly.

Khan frowned down at her sarcasm, his lips in an amused twist. "Don't be pert, Miss," he warned. "After tomorrow night, I shall have some rights to curb your undesirable behaviors." He pulled her in more closely, and seemed on the verge of kissing her mouth, when a horn honked in front of the house. Aasar sighed.

"That's for the best," he said. "I will make preparations for us. Be ready by four P.M., and look for my call," he said. She nodded, suddenly feeling shy.

She walked to the entryway, took her purse and walked down the steps, Khan escorting her to the car. He opened the door and helped her inside, indulging in one last erotically charged kiss on the back of her hands, his eye burning into hers. "Until tomorrow," he said. He instructed the driver to take her back to the Embassy. He shut the car door, and she immediately rolled down the window. "And Carrie," he said, sounding both worried and excited, "Please. Don't get cold feet." She swallowed around a lump in her throat, and couldn't answer.

They held hands as the car started to slowly pull away, until they were forcibly parted by its motion.

The following day, Carrie woke early and dressed fast, packing some of her things for transport before going down the intel suites early. She helped Max, Barbara and Connor set up a bunch of data uploads before demolishing part of the local network, and signed authorization again for transport of deceased American citizens back to their country of origin. This was the final group, and the only one she knew well was Hensley. Intense, bearded Bill Hensley, age 46, cryptographer by training. He was divorced, so there was no current spouse to grieve, but Hensley had a 19 year old son back at U Mass Amherst, who was devastated at the loss of his father. She signed the order and rode with the convoy out to the airport, a preoccupying and desolate task. She was absorbed enough in the seriousness of her work that when the phone rang around lunchtime, she found herself pleasantly jolted to see, "Aasar Khan" come up on the iPhone's caller ID.

"Hello?" she said breathlessly, walking back to the G-car.

"Good morning, Carrie," Khan said, sounding uncomfortable. For a minute, she expected him to call the whole thing off as a case of poor judgment, a brain melt, a big fat mistake which could be stopped right now and forgotten, instead of perpetuated. If she had said the things that he said last night, she thought she might be infected with a case of "second thoughts." But all he said, was, "I missed you last night."

An understatement, she thought. If he felt anything like she did, he had tossed and turned all night, and any brief sleep he got was tormented by taut, urgent, sexual dreams. "I missed you too," she said, surprised to find she meant it pretty fervently.

Businesslike, formal again, Khan said, "I need to ask you a few questions. Can you speak freely?"

Carrie looked around the car at the driver, Parvez, and the other agent who escorted her, Phil. Neither of them appeared to be listening. "I can talk," she said.

"I need to know your ring size," he said.

She paused for a moment. "You don't need to do that," she said.

"I do. And I need to know your dress size, as well."

"Oh. Um. Is there a plan for what we're wearing?"

"There is. I am hoping you'll wear traditional garb. And my mother's jewels. Are you willing?" he asked.

She pictured Aasar in traditional wedding gear, and found the idea exotic. "I wear a size 4, US. And yes, I'll wear something traditional. If you can help me find something." He went on to tell her that the ceremony would be shortened from the true length of a traditional Pakistani marriage ceremony.

"How long are they usually?" she asked.

"Four days," he chortled.

"I see," she smiled. Aasar told her that his mosque's retired Imam, a friend of his grandfather, would perform their ceremony. "He is ninety-one years old, and has known me since I was a boy. It will be true and right in the sight of Allah, but it will not be entered into any court records, Carrie. Unless you want it to be..."

The craziness of the whole situation made itself obvious to her again - it was madness that they would even be having this conversation, let alone be making these decisions together. It was irrational. But the feelings she had with him last night - she decided that the strangeness, the secret commitment, the marriage ceremony was important somehow. She was also deathly curious to see what Khan had in store for her, not to mention totally turned on by the romance of the thing. His eyes, his hands, his sharp intellect, his romantic ardor... he was a vast gulf. Speaking to Aasar was like standing at the mouth of a large cave with a match, yelling, "Hallo!" She had only seen the surface. There was so much more to know, to learn about him. This strange union would be the way into the mind of a fascinating lover, even if she intended to spend almost no time with him in the long term. She thought it was exciting, arousing; she thought it was worth it. What had Khan said? "The pinnacle love experience of human life." Yes, she wanted some of that. Finally, she answered him. "I want to keep it secret," she said.

"I understand," he said. "I will be ready to pick you up at four. You will come?" he asked, sounding more urgent and strained.

She smiled strangely to herself. Something pure, something special. Something just for her memories, if she should be so lucky as to grow old.

"I will," she confirmed.

At precisely 4 PM, Khan and his driver showed up at the embassy. Carrie stood just inside the door waiting, and was disappointed when Khan didn't come himself to collect her. On the way, Carrie recognized the route to Khan's mansion. The SUV pulled up and left her in the same spot as last night. She stepped from the vehicle wearing her ordinary gray wool pantsuit, and just as she was about to tap on the door, it opened, revealing an ancient Pakistani woman in a shalwar kameez, who signaled her inside. She said something incomprehensible in Urdu, but referred to herself as "Ayah", which Carrie recognized for a title used by Nannies in India. She was about four and a half feet tall, stooped and adorable, and seemed to be there to care for Carrie. The woman gestured that she should follow, and Carrie followed her through the familiar parlors of the lower mansion around a corner and up a staircase to a bedroom suite. Once inside the suite, she indicated by hand signals that Carrie should remove her clothing. Just then, her iPhone rang.

She unbuttoned her suit jacked as she answered it. It was Aasar. "Carrie, are you here?" he said.

Carrie was already examining the fascinating array of wedding clothes which had been laid out in this spare bedroom suite, and removing her western gear while she did it. Let the fantasy continue, she thought. "I'm here, and I'm fine, Aasar," she said.

"I'm upstairs," he said. "I take it you've met my Ayah. She cared for me as a child. She will keep our confidence. And, she knows how to dress you." She made a kind obeisance or two to Khan, then rang off.

Ayah was holding up some silken undergarments that appeared to require her removing everything she had worn to Khan's house. She did so, stripping completely naked, and then with goosebumps flaring, re-dressed herself, with the Ayah's fussy assistance, in the clothing laid out on the bed.

She finished pulling on the cool silks, and shivered. Next, the Ayah held up a gorgeous deep red silk dress woven in gold thread. She wiggled into it, and working her arms through the sleeves, she was surprised to find this Pakistani Wedding Dress to be as silken and sensual as any Western evening gown, though extremely heavy. Khan's Ayah laced the back of the dress closed, and then urged Carrie into a sitting position in front of a low mirror. She brushed her vanilla blonde hair back and spoke, unintelligably, no doubt about the softness of it and the youth and beauty of the woman under it, until she felt pleased with the smoothness of the presentation. She then placed a thickly beaded red headband in place, from which a long golden filament dropped right over Carrie's forehead. At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

Ayah fussed, and opened the door, remonstrating with Khan, who stood outside the door, who after a moment's bickering, came inside wearing a bright ensemble of red silk and golden thread with black pants. Eventually the Ayah conceded his entry, and stepped back, her wrinkled visage on Carrie, prepared in her finery. His eyes went directly to her, who was in shock to see the groom before the ceremony.

"Carrie, I have something for you," he said, striding up to her. He held her hands in his, and helped her to rise. She stood, swaying like a reed, under the heavy dress, while he explained.

"I have brought you my mother's tikka jewel, to bring us luck." Khan produced a red velvet jewel case, which he opened to reveal a large cut red jewel. Carrie squinted and inspected it more closely.

"Aasar, that can't be..." she said, unsure.

"It is. A ruby. 14 carats. Barely large enough to honor you," he said quietly, looking discreetly at the taut front of her dress, his eyes melting.

Khan attached the ruby to the chain of golden that dripped down the front of Carrie's forehead, his warm fingers sensually brushing her skin, placing it in the middle of her forehead, and then stepped back. He reached into a pocket, and said, "Are your ears pierced?" he said. She nodded.

Khan then brought out a smaller jewelry case containing a pair of ruby earrings, each of which had to be at least a carat. They were clear as red glass and sparkled in their golden mounts. Khan looked on intently as Carrie put them on. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

"We are finished," Khan stated nervously, "so I'll see you downstairs. I would understand, though," he said, "if you wanted to back out. Even though I want this very much," he said, sincerely, "it feels crazy."

She thought about the general insanity of their union. And the world around them, and the lack of love in it. The warmth in his eyes, the affection in his Ayah's when she looked at him and her, the kindness she felt in this house of a different culture and name, all warmed her heart and cleared some of the pained sadness she brought with her. She said, "No second thoughts worth mentioning," she said.

After he left, his Ayah urged her to sit in a chair near a low table at the windows in the spare bedroom, and brought out a paintbrush and henna. She indicated that Carrie should place her hands flat on the table, and to fulfill the ancient tradition, painted a frilled design on the backs of her hands with the natural red-brown dye. Ordinarily this ritual took on a life of its own and could take many hours, but in this case, his Ayah hummed a quiet melody and quickly painted the curling lines in only a few minutes. For beauty, she knew, and for good fortune. Her eyes burned.

Finally, Ayah took a transparent piece of red silk from the chiffonier, and muttering a prayer under her breath, floated it over Carrie's head and veiled her. Then, she marched her down to where Carrie had sat with Khan last night. As she entered, she saw that Khan or someone had lit at least 50 beeswax candles, poised all around the living room, giving the area a warm yellow glow, and giving off a particularly good smell.

The wedding was quiet - downstairs in Khan's huge living room. There were no guests, no music. His witnesses were the ancient Imam and his Ayah, who smiled at him warmly during the Nikah, during which the Imam spoke prayers offering the life and offspring of the couple to the Gods. Khan's eyes shone as he observed her during the ceremony - there had been so many places in this plan of his for a Western woman to object, be disrespectful or simply refuse. But she seemed to know how much this mattered to him, and stood quietly during the entire religious service, until Aasar's Ayah sat back and clapped her hands. At the end of it, Khan tenderly lifted her veil and regarded her face. She looked back up at him shyly, but was really more turned on by the sequence of events than anything. She belonged to him now, he loved her. So this is what it felt like to be wed.

The Imam brought forward a piece of paper, which was closely lettered in Arabic. Khan met her raised eyebrows, "Our marriage contract," he explained. "It says that you belong to me, body, dowry and chattel," he said. Carrie blushed. "I don't have a dowry to bring you," she said. "And I'm afraid my chattel consists of two suitcases full of work clothes."

Khan smiled, his eyes moist, the twist of his mouth wicked. "It says, body, dowry and chattel. But I am not concerned about those other two items," he intoned. She felt a pulse of warmth between her legs. Eyes down, the heavy red dress hanging on her like a low, she reached for the old-fashioned fountain pen and signed the paper. Khan walked her to a low silk-covered stool and seated her there.

The Imam and Ayah smiled. Khan pressed a cloth bag into his hand, and led them out the back door, chatting in Urdu. To Carrie's ear, it sounded like he was impressing on them again how important it was to keep this secret. Finally, they left, and Khan shut the back door of his house, behind the kitchen, and turned the lock. As he walked back to her, Khan laid the marriage contract paper on a counter, and removed his traditional head gear, and placing on the counter as he went by. He then walked towards her, eyes burning. When he reached her, he pulled the folded veil off her head, dropping it to the floor.

Carrie swallowed. "He never said, 'You may now kiss the bride,'" she said.

The corner of Khan's eyes wrinkled, his amusement apparent. "The contract is signed. You are my wife now, to kiss as I choose." He caught both of her hands in his.

Khan's hands swallowed up her small ones, and he compelled her to rise from the low stool upon which she had been seated. He pulled her right to him, arm around her back, crushing her close, and kissed her. His lips were soft, moving over her mouth with dreamlike gentleness. She sighed, relaxed into him, and her arms went around his neck. Khan released her and looked down into her eyes.

"Carrie," he said intensely. "Come upstairs," he said, and looked at the marble staircase. Carrie nervously exhaled, enjoying the crazy ride.

The light the many candles shone around them, bathing them in a golden glow. "Yes," she said simply, putting her arms around his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Carrie finished the description of the small. modified Islamic wedding ceremony, and sat back into Maggie's cushiony couch. Franny was asleep in the playpen, sucking her thumb contentedly. Maggie looked at Carrie, her expression one of frank amazement.

"Wow, Carrie," she said. "That's a pretty incredible story."

"I know," Carrie said, looking preoccupied.

"Especially for someone who hasn't been to any church, except for Dad's funeral, since 1995," she said.

"It wasn't my religion. And it made Khan happy," she said.

"Is that what matters?" Maggie asked, raising her eyebrows. "What I'm not getting, Carrie, is why you had to marry him," she said.

"I guess I can't explain better than I already have. His faith was part of it, but..." she looked at the empty fireplace. "The other part of it is that he wanted whatever time we had to be, I don't know, sacred. He knew this would be a short-lived thing, no matter what happened, or what Imam showed up," she said sorrowfully.

"Sacred," Maggie observed. "Then maybe it shouldn't have been a short-term thing," she said sensibly. At that moment, Maggie's iPhone tweeted. She took it out and looked at it.

"Dad's lawyer," she said, softly. "I need to take this." As Frank's executor, Maggie needed to work out details of probate - thankfully, due to her urging, Frank had not died intestate. But even with a valid will, there was still a lot to take care of. Carrie smiled gratefully at Maggie as she took the call out of the room.

How best to explain this to anyone else, she thought. Her mind went back to the moment that the Imam had declared them man and wife. She was glad she wasn't being asked to explain their wedding night.

In a way, this would be the easiest part to explain to a grown woman, Carrie thought. Once the door has been opened, the lust has been acknowledged, there's nothing more normal than the consummation of the physical part of a man and woman's love relationship. But the consummation of her wedding night with Aasar Khan had been as romantic, striking and unique as the rest of the strange, rapid courtship. After the brief ceremony concluded, Khan gathered her up in his arms and lifted her, carrying her up the staircase. He moved slowly, but his strength was apparent, as he didn't wobble or seem to strain at her weight. This was an accomplishment, because while Carrie was petite, the dress itself weighed about 25 pounds. She looked forward to getting it off, for a number of reasons.

In her mind, she pictured Scarlett O'Hara being carried up the stairs by Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. She realized that as ridiculous as parts of this had been, the experience was something she would never have had in the states and was unlikely to have again. She gave in to the flow of events, putting her head on Khan's shoulder.

He carried her into the master bedroom and set her on her feet, where there was a fire burning in the fireplace. His hands turned her shoulders to face the fire, and he said quietly, "My Bride." She heard a rustling behind her and turned to see that he had removed all but his black pants. She walked into his arms and allowed herself to finally show the passion she felt - kissing him, her arms around him, a whimper of excitement escaping from her as he pressed her to him. His hands went to the back of her dress and began to untie the elaborate garment. It was complicated enough that he had to break off their kiss and turn her around to face the fireplace, standing behind her to unburden her of the dress.

She felt Khan's hands working their way down her back, much more slowly than she would have liked. He untied the back of the corseted wedding gown, one set of eyelets at a time. As he undressed her, she felt his breath down her back in succeedingly greater area. When he spoke to her, his voice shook. "Carrie, please stop me if I frighten you," he said.

Like she was a virgin or something. He had to know she wasn't. His statement was arousing all the same, because it implied he would do... things to her... that she hadn't experienced yet. Or perhaps it would simply be the uniqueness, the moment of possession. She had agreed to marry him and she was now, by law, technically his property - an erotic thought. The wedding gown slid down over her hips to reveal her curvy form, covered only by a thin silk chemise, with no panties beneath. Khan drew his breath in through his nose.

He then seemed to suddenly crack and lose control of himself, looking at her near nakedness, her availability, her willingness, because the next thing he did was seize her upper arms and turn her to face him. He pulled her close, her hands pressing against his bare torso. He reached down and lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the enormous four poster bed, that filled the south end of his master bedroom suite.

"That's quite a bed," she said, admiringly, as he laid her on it. He looked at her, eyes dark and searching, almost frankly sorrowful at the beauty before him. She smiled reassuringly. "Aasar..." she said, "I'm not afraid."

That was all it took, and he was on top of her. The heat of his bare chest pressed down on her body burned her even through the silk chemise. His mouth opened hers, and his kisses seemed to consume and engulf her, as his hands stroked her body. She felt his stiffness pressing through his pants, and reached down with a small white hand to outline his rigid member through the cloth. He groaned and took her her away, pressing both her wrists into the bed next to her ears, pinning her. "Stop, or I'll be done before we start," he cautioned.

He sat back and unzipped himself, revealing his long, athletic body, his smooth and gorgeous brown skin, finally devoid of any clothing. He was just as beautiful as she had imagined, a man of fantasy. His long, uncircumsized member was completely hard for her, a drop of fluid anxiously waiting on the end of it. It was sizable, and not for the first time, Carrie was glad she was no virgin.

Aasar came forward, hovering over her, pressing his cheek into hers and placing the lightest of kisses on her lips. "I have thought of you this way, ever since you spent the night at my home," he said. Her eyes were misty, as she kissed him back on his cheek and forehead. "I am so glad you were there for me," she said thickly. It made sense to her now. Khan kissed her neck, her breastbone, her belly through the thin silk, then knelt back between her spread knees.

"May I? he inquired politely. Carrie smiled, "If you don't strip me naked soon and fuck me silly, I'm going to scream."

His eyes flashed, and he smiled. He immediately lifted the gown over her head, leaving them both skin to skin, bare in each others arm's, the combination of skin tones exotically flashing in the bureau mirror, her creamy paleness contrasted against his lean, coffee-dark complexion. She was wet and so turned on that her pussy felt almost electrified. His mouth found her white belly and dallied there, while his fingers gently probed her folds. He pressed down on her clit and held her pussy tight.

"You will always be a virgin for me," he said, breathlessly, and lay between her spread thighs. Unable to restrain himself anymore, he slid his length into her waiting passage, clutching her buttocks to himself. He held her close and moved fully into her, holding her tight, pressing himself completely in and being still there, as deep as humanly possible. His pubic bone was hard against her clit, and he was moving very little. By pressing into her harder, then less hard, then repeating, Khan used his cock to bring Carrie pleasure. She gasped, as he began to speak into her ear.

"I can take you this way, because you're mine. My bride," he sighed. His hardness was still grinding deep inside of Carrie, triggering more wetness to shed down from her stretched passage. Her eyes were wet, and she wrapped her legs around him. He grunted and began to thrust, slowly, then faster, every drawing out of his hard prick a loss, every return of it to its sheath, a relief. His hands moved over her breasts, her belly, her cunt, and his mouth uttered words of deepest romantic love, devotion, fealty.

"Darling. Carrie. There will never be anyone else for me, never," he moaned, and finally, both of their orgasms burst on them, taking the room out of focus, Carrie's arms around Khan's neck, her mouth on his shoulders, the soft cries of her climax on her lips. He kissed her and laid full length upon her beauty, resting, enjoying the warmth.

Time passed. They listened to the fire crackle, and eventually Khan rolled aside and pulled her to him, Carrie's head resting on his shoulder. He reached around her and covered her lightly with the bedspread, and kissed her temple, next to her hair.

"This was madness," he said. "I will never be able to let you go."

Carrie sighed. There was something to be said for a one-night stand - no commitment or expectations. "I'm sorry," she said. "Can we just make the most of tonight? Please." She leaned up on her side, resting on her elbow. "I intend to," he said, taking her in his arms again.


	5. Chapter 5

Maggie walked back into the room, breaking Carrie's erotic train of thought. "Everything's okay, Carrie. The will stands, nothing ends up in probate. It should be pretty easy to close out Dad's estate," she said. Carrie was so glad she hadn't found out about her father's death until the day after she and Khan parted. If she had been in mourning, no doubt her decisions would have been different.

Carrie sighed. "Doesn't make it that much easier, does it?" she said.

Maggie looked at the floor. "Not much."

With that, Carrie was tired of speaking, and felt that she had shared as much of the personal stuff as she was comfortable with. Maggie sensed this in the silence and said, "What happened after?"

Carrie looked at Maggie, tears starting in her eyes, and said, "We said goodbye."

Carrie and Aasar carried on their lovemaking until the wee hours of the morning, breaking only to rest, drink some water, and at one point take a shower together, which had been delightful. In the shower, Carrie had sunk to her knees and demonstrated the advantages of being married to a non-virgin, taking him in her mouth while Khan gasped in pleasure at her audacity. In return, he toweled her off, and was so overtaken with love and lust that he didn't even get her back to the bed for round three, laying her right on the floor of the bedroom, his mouth on her pussy, licking and sucking her right on the carpet until she cried out and came for him. He sat her up again, and helping her to her feet, carried her back to the bed, and placed her in it, her wet hair dark over her head like a seal, her eyes closed. He climbed in behind her and gathered her up in his arms.

"The day I put you back into my bed, the day you were drugged," he said quietly, "this is what I dreamed of."

She smiled, drifting off. "I'm glad you waited," she said, amused.

He stiffened the slightest bit, and said, "Of course I waited. I even waited until we were married. It was important to me, to have your..." his hand smoothed over her slender white thigh, "Consent." He finished.

"I'm completely consenting," she said, and he lay down next to her. He pulled the eiderdown over their naked bodies, pulled her close, and they both fell into a deep sleep.

The morning after, Carrie awoke in Aasar's arms. She wiggled loose from his embrace, and went to the bathroom to wash up while he slept on. She went downstairs to the spare bedroom and was dressing herself in her street clothes, when Khan appeared in the doorway, wrapped from the waist down in a large black bath towel.

"Carrie," he said concernedly. "Are you leaving?"

"I have to," she said, frowning. "There's work. I have to set up Quinn's therapy sessions with Angela. I need to Skype with Maggie and Franny at 4, and Max and I need to debrief the last two analysts going home today on the network migration."

Khan frowned, sat down on the bed, knees apart. He leaned over and clasped his hands loosely between his knees. When he looked up at her, the expression in his eyes was one of raw hurt.

"I understand," he said, his voice controlled. He looked down, then up again at her face. She stood buttoning her blouse. "Some part of me thought you might stay. But I understand."

She finished dressing, and after she pulled her boots on, he stood and wrapped her in arms. She felt tears prick her eyelids as she rested her head on his chest. This was no one-nighter, and they both knew it.

"When do you leave?" he said. "I will come and see you off."

Khan dressed in newly pressed khakis and a loose t-shirt, and came back downstairs to Carrie with a small package in his hands. In the parlor, in front of the painting by the fireplace, they stood facing each other silently. It was clear that Khan still had much to say, but he only took her in his arms and pressed her lips to his one last time. He opened her hand, and into her palm he placed the ruby earrings that she had removed before bed. She looked stricken, sad, but put them on immediately. Finally, onto her left ring finger, he slid a gold and ruby ring that matched it - another large stone, almost big enough to look fake. She sucked in her breath. It fit perfectly.

"Aasar, I can't," she almost wept.

"You can, and you will," he said, softly. "The secret marriage never can be broken."

The next night, she shipped out of Islamabad for good.


	6. Epilogue

"And that's the last time you saw him?" Maggie said. Carrie had seen her use two Kleenexes during her retelling of the last part of the story. "God, Carrie, I don't know how you can stand it."

She started across the room, desolate. She had not intended to fall deeply in love, or make a commitment, or do anything permanent, but it was clear to her now that her feelings for Aasar Khan were not ephemeral. She was madly in love with him, she would be in love with him next month, next year. If she was lucky enough to live to old age, which was uncertain in her line of work, she would love him even as an old, old woman, she would love him until the day she died. Her heart ached.

"I don't know how I can stand it either," she said, tears running down her cheeks.

Maggie came across the room, and sat next to Carrie. She put her arms around her, and Carrie laid her head on Maggie's shoulder and wept. "I'm so sorry, Carrie," Maggie said, "You didn't need this, on top of Dad."

Carrie sat back and tried to smile. "I'll be alright," she said. There really was no reason to pursue an annulment or anything like it, since no legal document existed anywhere regarding the marriage. The paper contract was more of a keepsake, really. But Carrie felt that she wouldn't have pursued an annulment, even if it had been necessary. She would tick the "single" box on her 1040 tax return next year, but in her heart, she never would be again.

"Have you spoken to him, at least?" Maggie asked.

"Only once. I told him I wasn't going to pursue an annulment, religious or otherwise. And he said he wasn't going to either."

"So, you're still married," she said, matter-of-factly.

She looked at the floor. "He said there'd never be another woman for him. So it didn't matter." That did it. Carrie put her head in her hands, and cried, while Maggie rubbed her back.

The noise awoke baby Franny, who sat up and goggled at them. Carrie noticed the baby, and smiled, wiping her tears. "Hi, baby, oh hi, sweet girl," she said sweetly. She picked Franny up out of the playpen, and walked to the window.

"If you ever want to talk about it, Carrie, I'll be here," Maggie said, wisely leaving the topic alone. "When you and Miss Priss get done looking out the window, maybe you can change her diaper."

Carrie smiled, but continued to cuddle her daughter, looking out the window distantly. She was forever changed, by her journey to Islamabad, in so many ways. Some events, she and Quinn and Max would recover from. In time. But some things that happened there, would remain in place.

Baby Franny fiddled with the ruby ring on her finger, and cooed.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't pick up on it, the title and a significant line are sneakily swiped from a lovely, sad song by Sting, of the same name. It's a pretty ideal soundtrack for this weeper. It's on Spotify, check it out.


End file.
